


After All Things

by Rileywrites_parker



Series: It's A Lot Like Falling/After All Things [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avengers Infinity War, Emotional Sex, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Marvel Universe, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 08:37:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16930005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rileywrites_parker/pseuds/Rileywrites_parker
Summary: The crushing. That’s what you had come to refer to it as. It had left the Peter Parker you saw a broken and sad man; a man in desperate need of closeness. Only, it seems as though he’s forgotten how. You offer what you can to this man who doesn’t know. Answering his question in the only way he’ll let you.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> This story follows the events of 'It's A Lot Like Falling.'
> 
> Peter is 23/24.

The heavy smell of smoke filled the night air, ash and debris from the burning apartment building a few blocks away from your own fell from the sky, carried on the wind, fluttering past your window as you looked out on the horizon with a worried gaze.

Red and orange from the inferno cast this eerie glow behind the silhouette of the buildings dominating the skyline visible from your little portion of the world, ever reaching flames licking up at the stars from the source. Red and blue flashes added to the burning colors, staining the rising smoke a sickly purple, thickness of it beginning to block out the moon. Your ears were full of the sounds of helplessness and tragedy, echoing through your brain and reverberating in the chambers of your heart.

The whole building had been engulfed within minutes, even from where you stood in the cool safety of your apartment; troubled observer, it was undeniable; the structure was already beginning to crumble in on itself, fire having eaten away at the support beams.

There would be death.

It had happened too fast.

Your chest tightened further.

A loud rumbling sound filled the thickened air of the night as you watched the building finally give way, weakened, flame-licked spine fracturing. Watched as the burning debris scattered, charred remnants of the places people had called home, gift boxes for their lives, raining down on the city in a violent torrent, surrounding windows shattering, smoke choking.

Your eyes filled with stinging tears, salty droplets repelling from eyelashes; your fingers found the lock on the window, flipping it so that it would open without issue. So that it would open when the fires stopped breathing, when the smoke cleared and the disaster of the night ended.

When the numbers totaled.

When the names came in.

Turning away from the scene with a heavy heart and a brain full of smoke, you made your way to the bathroom to take a shower; an attempt to clear the debris from your mind. You were preparing yourself, checking for structural integrity before asking it to support more.

 _He_ would be here soon.

He would need it.

After that.

After all things.

* * *

You thought of him and what you knew as the hot water streamed through your hair, as you worked your fingers with suds, foam caressing your tresses. You thought of the incident that had happened almost a year ago; the crushing. The thing that had crushed him; crushed the man you knew before.

Barely knew was more accurate; your relationship consisting of longing glances, entirely on your end, and a brief exchange that involved awkwardness and discomfort on his.

But still, he didn’t yet know that you knew. He didn’t know that you knew him as Peter.

He only wanted you to know the names of the people he failed.

You let him take what he needed, allowed him to ask a question that wasn’t quite right, that was selfish and unfair, but needing and absolutely necessary to hold what was left of him together.

So you answered as best you could.

Hot water beat down on your neck and shoulders, loosening the tight muscles, tension seeping down your arms and fingers to drip away into the drain at your feet. You stood under the engine hose until the burning in your eyes and chest had been put out.

The water had run cold.

When you pushed the curtain aside, he was standing in the doorway, blurry red and blue image reflecting in the steamed surface of the mirror above the sink; his entire body drooping, shoulders slumping, the weight of his injured mind dragging his soul; crushing.

There it was: _the crushing._

The smell of him was overwhelming. There was smoke, more potent in the hot, humidity of the bathroom, burning the insides of your nose, but there was something else, too; less of a scent and more of a feeling. He was a flickering ember, the smoke of him smelling like sadness and desperation, like last words and wishes, things unsaid.

He smelt like loss.

He wasn’t moving, just standing at the barrier between rooms, like a stranger; body pleading, blank white eyes at his mask aimed at your dewy ones. He was waiting for your signal.

He was always a question mark.

He always waited for you to answer. At least there was that to make it OK; you had a choice.

You held open your arms and he fell into them, taking on all of that crushing weight on your shoulders, tugging at your chest; that smell completely engulfing you as his sadness did the same; strange texture of his lycra suit scratching at your wet skin, rubbing at sensitive flesh in an irritating way; gloved fingers drawing at soaking hair as his fingers balled into fists and he pulled.

You could see your reflection in the fogged mirror over a red shoulder, features distorted and hazy; eyes glassy and lips quivering, so you worked to school your features before he could see.

He shook as he cried into your shoulder, the sounds coming from him like the people he’d pulled from the building: gasping lungs begging for raggedly drawn air, whole body desperately pleading for _something._ His arms tightened in a way that hurt, pulling your body as close to him as he could, your skin pinching and pulling as he asked for your soul to bend in ways that it couldn’t.

When his fingers tugged too hard at your hair, and he yanked your head back so that he could take in the scent of you, hot breath behind your ear, moisture spreading over the vulnerable skin of your neck, a small, pained sound escaped your lips.

The sound was enough for him to ease up, to ask a little less; he released your soul, your body.

But then he was pushing the emblem on his chest, smoky fabric falling on the floor into a billowy pile at your feet, reaching out for you again, moistened palms and calloused fingers smoothing over your skin. Those hands found your face, held your jaw where he wanted, so that he could clearly see what your eyes were telling him through the haze of his mask.

You gave him your best smile, lips pulling up slightly to pair with a nod. _This is OK_ , it said, _I’m still here_ , they said, _whatever you need._

He ran his fingers down the sides of your neck, over collar bones and along the lines of still slick arms, lifting them to wrap around his shoulders as strong arms picked you up from the ground, bare legs wrapping around slim hips, the cool surface of a damp wall pressing against your shoulder blades as he held you in place against him, as he trapped you.

You felt a set of fingers between your legs as he worked his boxers down just enough to free himself, gasping as he entered you without hesitation, inhaling a shaky breath as a masked nose pressed into the crook of your shoulder.

His skin was coated with the night.

“Henry,” he whispered, voice raspy, “tonight you call me Henry,” punctuating each word with a thrust, words turning into groans, the bones of your back protesting as they met with drywall.

And so you did. 

With every slap of your hips meeting, every gasp, every moan, you called him by the name of the man he had failed; called him by the name given to the life that had been crushed on this night.

You called him Henry because Peter had been crushed a long time ago.

It had started kind of like this, on a night like this, months ago. You knew why he had chosen your apartment, why your window, why that night.

You looked like _her_.

* * *

_“Did you hear that they finally caught that bastard?” You peeled your eyes away from your screen, fingers pausing in their typing as you looked over at your fellow internee._ _Your eyebrows rose in surprise, heart skipping at the prospect of the man who’d been on your mind, on everyone’s mind for nearly two months._

_“That New Years asshole?” He nodded his head, glasses falling to the end of his nose, fingers pushing them back up his face._

_“Yeah, found him in a parking garage beaten half to death two days ago,” turning his eyes back to his work, nearly finished with his gossip, “shame whoever it was didn’t finish the job.”_

_You didn’t know if you agreed with him. Distracted from your work, you looked out past the top of your office divider, the noises of the Daily Bugle invading your ears as you lowered your immunity temporarily: the clicking of keyboards, ringing of phones, chattering voices collecting information, shuffling paper; noise coming from every corner of the cramped building, busybodies matching up with the busy air._

_Noise from every corner except one._

_There was Peter Parker, returned from a long absence, sitting outside of Jameson’s office with sweatered elbows on the knees of old jeans, fingers woven through lack-luster curls, dull brown of his eyes focused on the floor._

_He pulled a stack of glossy photos from a pocket in the bag by his feet. His knuckles were painted with purple and red splotches, swollen and shiny, turning white as he gripped at the pictures._  
  
Of the few times you’d seen him since your internship started, bruises weren’t an uncommon feature, purple painting the paleness of his skin at every occasion. You often wondered what he did when he wasn’t behind a camera. Maybe he was a boxer, with the bruises, the broadness of his shoulders and the way he filled out the sleeves of his sweater. He wasn’t a big man, the slightness of him deceptive; there was muscle there, long and lean. 

_Once, he’d walked in sporting a nasty black eye._

_Maybe he was a police officer or a fireman; even from across the room he put off this vibe, like he was trustworthy. Maybe the bruises were from take downs gone awry or falling debris, shoulders broad from carrying people. Maybe he was a doctor or an EMT. Maybe he was a teacher._

_Maybe he was just clumsy._

_Maybe you’d work up the courage to ask him one of these times._

_You had planned to. Had almost done it when he’d been in the last time, when his hair was shiny and his eyes were bright and his shoulders hadn’t slouched so much. You’d closed and saved your word document and your legs had lifted from your chair, jittery feet had taken that step, but then you’d stopped because your brain finally clued in to this beautiful, glowing thing of a woman behind him; immediately envious of her, being dragged along by his hand. Then when he’d leaned in with a smile on his face to place a kiss on her cheek, you understood why she shined._

_You’d sat down and started typing again._

_But this was now, and he was here again, and as you looked at him you decided that this was not the same man._

_You remembered seeing her pretty face among the photographs covered in flowers at the memorial._

_Jameson was calling him into his office and you watched as one of the pictures slipped from his fingers, landing on the ground beneath the chair he’d been sitting at, sneakered feet nearly stepping on it as he rose. You were out of your chair and pushing past the mail courier to get to it before he disappeared through the door, tripping over your own feet in your rush. “Mr. Parker,” you called as your fingers carefully closed around the edge of the photograph, the trailing heel of a sneaker stopping mid swing as he turned at the sound of his name._

_When he looked down at you with raised brows and tired brown eyes set in dark, bruised skin, his entire demeanor changed. There was a flash of life, bringing color to his cheeks and a shimmer to his eyes, making you smile._

_Up close you realized he smelt like the sun; warm and sweet, but also slightly musky; like the air on a stormy day._

_You smiled until you realized the shimmer there in his eyes was actually the beginning of tears and the color splattering his cheeks was sadness. He was looking away from you in an instant; hiding._

_And you knew why. You had the same cheek bones, the same hair, the same long lashes._

_“You, um, you dropped this,” you whispered, pushing the picture at him with a shaky outstretched hand. His eyes were on your fingers, focusing in on the way your thumbnail was whitening as your grip tightened the longer he looked. He took the picture from you, color of his knuckles shocking against the white backing._

_“Thanks,” he murmured. Then he was gone, door closing in your face. You went back to your computer and started doing research on the woman who had taken the man you’d almost had the courage to talk to barely two months ago._

_What you found had brought you to tears._

_The crushing, you had decided to call it, and you understood._

_What you_ didn’t _understand, was why Spider-Man was knocking at your window later that night, the sound of knuckles rapping against glass distracting you from the story playing out on the News; a school bus returning from a football game had veered off a bridge and disappeared beneath icy water._

_One of the cheerleaders hadn’t made it out._

_The shocked, confused expression didn’t leave your face as you opened your window for him, allowing the familiar stranger into your bedroom, as scratchy, suited arms pulled your body to him before he was even fully in the room.  
_

_You held your arms up in alarm, afraid to touch him, not really understanding what was happening. He was crying and hugging and doing his best to fit his masked face between your neck and shoulder, and you really didn’t understand until the smell of him hit your nose._

_Oh._

_He was all sunshine and storm clouds and wet grass._

_Your heart clenched and you found you had to quickly fight off tears; you didn’t want to scare him away. Scare him off from whatever this was.  
_

_Your arms wrapped around slumped shoulders as tightly as they could then, the whole of his suit soaking wet, drenching your camisole and sleeping shorts as he pulled you tighter to him._

_“Jen,” his voice whispered, “Call me Jen.”_

_And so you did._


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crushing. That’s what you had come to refer to it as. It had left the Peter Parker you knew a broken and sad man; a man in desperate need of closeness. After a year of careful, empty touches and words, the truth finally comes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is 23/24.
> 
> First italicized portion is a flashback, the second is a nightmare.
> 
> Warnings: Sexual content/Hurt/Angst/Mentions of death/Nightmares

_“Mr. Parker,” an unfamiliar, feminine voice hit his ears just as he made eye contact with Mr. Jameson, beady eyes staring at bruised knuckles and the photographs held beneath them. He held a finger out, joints in his hands protesting as the digit extended and he turned around to the source of that cautious voice._

_He wasn’t at all prepared; hadn’t expected to have his heart ripped from his chest again like it had on that day when her face had disappeared._

_When hungry eyes met with cheekbones and freckles and long lashes, pink lips, and silken hair, for a moment, **she** was here again._

_‘Peter,’ **her** voice rang out in the lonely chasm of his mind. But it wasn’t **her** voice, was it? It was his heart playing cruel tricks on him. He could feel the tears brimming as his chest cramped; not in the way that meant to signal pain, but more in longing._

_This woman looked like **her**_. _She certainly didn’t dress the same way, or carry herself the same, body presenting itself in a strange, foreign manner; it didn’t fit the familiar line of her neck or the jaw that sat atop it._

_If he didn’t look too hard…_

_Maybe. His heart throbbed in protest, brain knocking against his skull in the irritating way it always did when he let himself imagine._

No.

_Instead, he focused his eyes on the hand that held out the photo he hadn’t realized he’d dropped; his senses had been dulled since it happened, brain too distracted. The thick paper beginning to make a funny sound as she shook, fingers clamping down, fingernails in the same shape **she’d**_ _always kept them._

_He reached for the photo, “Thanks,” he managed, the roughness and curt tone of his own voice surprising even himself. He whipped away from the confusing woman, shutting down the look in her eyes; something hopeful, something he missed, and shut the door._

* * *

 

_He didn’t remember much of what Jameson had talked about. He’d handed the photos over, wadding balls of cash in his hands, shoving what he’d been compensated into his pocket with numb fingers.  
_

_When he found himself waiting for her to exit the glass double-doors of the Bugle, he should’ve clued into the wrongness of what he was doing._

_Follow her, his heart said._

_Bring her back, it begged._

_‘Peter,’ **she** whispered._

_He should have noticed the alarms ringing between deafened ears when he found himself swinging above her, arms playing a game of tag; she was it, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as she walked past people carrying briefcases, trailing behind dogs, talking into cellphones at sweaty ears, past food carts, trashcans, and busy cars._

_He should have recognized what his heart was playing at when he couldn’t keep himself from_ _staring as she stopped to speak with one of those food vendors, focusing on the way her familiar lips moved around her strange voice, and how they changed shape when she chewed, or the way she smiled a little crookedly just as **she** had._

_He’d even perched himself on the top of the building across from the one she’d entered two minutes prior, looking through dirty windows, half closed curtains, and past potted plants, waiting to see the world she lived in when she wasn’t impersonating dead people in places meant to be safe._

_He would’ve left it at that; tried to forget her, but then he’d failed again._

_He’d talked to her and asked her name, she was young; she’d drowned and he’d failed again._

_‘Oh, but it’s Peter.’_

_Was it?_

_Before his suit had even had the chance to begin drying and he’d really even thought about what he was doing, his bruised, screaming knuckles and chest were rapping on the water-stained glass of a window he’d only just learned kept a dirty secret behind it’s panes._

_This was wrong because it was empty, but delicate fingers were pushing on the glass, heat from a warm body steaming around the pads, tips turning white as she pushed it open._

_He ignored confused eyes and questioning limbs as he pulled this known stranger to his chest in a way that he hadn’t held anything close to him in months. And then he cried._

_And then he’d cried more when **her** arms wrapped around him, and pushed back at his wounded, leaking chest, even though his brain knew it wasn’t really **her** , it could work, so he opened his mouth._

_He’d failed._

_Death._

_She smelt like flowers, too._

_Kill._

_‘Peter,’ **her** imagined lips brushed past his ear._

_“Jen,” he’d whispered with frozen lips through choking fabric; passing on the name of that newly failed life into a very real, strange ear_ _, “Call me Jen.”_

_And she did, and it crushed him._

* * *

 

“James,” she moaned, moist tongue hanging on to the letters, open-mouthed breathiness turning into a hiss as hips stilled, sweat dripped from one valley to the other, and hearts beat furiously. He pulled away from her, hands retreating from hips, eyes leaving the lines of her spine. He pulled his mask back over his head as he walked to the bathroom to grab a wash cloth, watching as the water from the faucet spilled over his fingers and darkened the fabric. He cleaned himself off and repeated the process with another rag, walking back to the bed where she still lie on her stomach, nose buried in wrinkled sheets, arms curled up underneath her, red lines marking her where his hands had been.

It wasn’t love making, not at all, not by any means, but still he poured everything that he could into it because it felt _good_ to just let go and pound away at something, someone, her, that responded to him in a way that was entirely unlike the whisperings echoing through the well of his mind.

He could call out and groan and _breathe_ all he wanted in the darkness of that well when he gave control over to the primal side of him that didn’t think so much.

She didn’t sound the same; it was OK, because she didn’t say his name like **_she_** had.

It had been a while since he’d heard the noise of **_her_** in his head; since _**she’d**_ caressed the nerves in his brain with **_her_** gentleness, with that sweet, sweet voice.

At least not in the waking world.

“Here,” he said, voice still raspy, holding the cloth in offering, fingers damp; a stray droplet falling from the dangling corner, plopping onto the wood at his toes. She took it from him, fingertips brushing past fingertips; fingers that never linked and instead only touched fleetingly, on accident. Almost like an afterthought.

“Thanks,” her voice carried through the sheets bunched at her lips and past the mask covering sensitive ears; holding its own croaky quality.

Her noises weren’t the same; she was much louder.

He looked away as she wiped at the mess between her legs. She watched him as she did. Her eyes always roaming over his lines, eyes that were familiar; the look in them one he knew and missed, but wasn’t quite ready to think too hard about. It was something he’d grown accustomed to over the last year; he never mentioned it, just let her have that much. 

She could look.

_Look at them._

_Henry, Jen, Robert, Maria, Eric, Aaron, Liam, Cindy, Ben, Timothy, Quinn, Susan, Kevin, James._

_Ben._

_**Her.**_

He was tired.

Tonight he would stay.

His fingers found the discarded fabric of his suit, pulling shaky, exhausted legs back through the holes, climbing into the rest of it before pressing the spider at his chest. When he curled up on her lumpy mattress and folded his limbs around crinkled sheets that smelt like him and her, he did so as Spider-Man; compact and sealed away beneath the layers of an extra skin.  

She always punctuated the night, and sometimes the day, with a gentle palm on a shoulder blade, caressing the back he was careful to maintain between her face and his, “Goodnight.”

* * *

 

_All he could see were his fingers. Fingers that were scratched and covered in this thick, white powder that caked at each of the creases, blood making the substance sticky; half of a nail had been ripped away from his ring finger._

_It was loud and disorientating; screaming, panicked voices all coming in at once; there was no way to distinguish who was yelling for who or for what, and his ears were ringing anyway so it didn’t matter. Except it did when the screaming got louder and closer to him, overwhelming his already confused brain. He felt a tightness at his chest and warmth at his back as a pair of dirty sleeves and wounded hands wound themselves tightly around him, the tearing, ripping scream at his ear._

_It was keeping him from moving forward, his brain telling him that he was missing something in all this._

_So he shoved as hard as he could at the body the arms and the noise were attached to. When he did, all of the sound ceased to exist and the air around him was whipping by in a blur until all there was in front of him was a pile of cement and twisted metal._

_Only it was difficult to tell that it was cement, because it was all red._

_There was sticky, warm, red liquid; blood his brain decided, alarm shooting through his body, fine hairs on every part of him raising. It dripped from the ends of warped steel like waterfalls, the amount and flow increasing the longer he looked._

_His chest was going to explode; his heart pounding, lungs refusing to work as his eyes caught on the arm peeking out from beneath the rubble.  
_

_His feet, feet that he couldn’t see or feel, carried him over in an instant.  
_

_His hands, hands that wormed their way underneath the fallen debris, past the blood, fingers soaked in the sanguineous warmth, stomach lurching, partnered with the terrified muscles of his arms to lift and throw, freeing._

_Crushing._

_Crushing_

_He was the one screaming now, his lungs remembering to work and not work at the same time, his heart had given up on any sort of rhythm; the smell of flowers, hot chocolate, and blood seeped into every part of him.  
_

_His knees hit the pavement in the emptiness; the fallen pieces of the sky disappearing until all there was was the puddle of **her** _in front of him.__

_Crushing._

_He needed to get away; body begging, pleading with his mind to work. Work. Move. Kill. Dead. **Her**._

_Come on, Peter._

_But this time there would be no disappearing act, where he woke up in his bed, missing whole chunks of time where he’d left her lying there in the rubble, left her in her casket, left her in the ground. Sharp, snake-like cords of steel emerged from the nothing and began weaving themselves around his legs and arms._

_Kill. Dead. **Her.**_

_He was screaming, desperately trying for anything, but his chest wasn’t working and his veins were on fire._

_He was screaming._

_Screaming._

* * *

 

He was still screaming and pleading for air when his mind finally released him from its self-induced terror; muscles tensing, body springing up from the sheets it suddenly felt trapped beneath; trembling fingers were pulling at his mouth under the mask trying to get as much air as he could as he struggled to bring himself fully to the world of the living.

Her hands were all over the place, rubbing at shoulders and arms and at the back of his neck, fingers swirling in heart-breaking, familiar patterns. Touch not quite enough to settle the alarm blaring above his throat through the dense fabric of the suit. 

He couldn’t breathe.

He turned away from her, legs dangling off the side of the bed. He yanked the mask from him, sweaty curls pulling up with it, scalp protesting where he’d grabbed too tightly at clumps of it through the lycra.

The sound of the gasping, flubbering breath he took echoed through the dark of the room, bouncing off the walls that were wholly unaware of the ones just like them inside a pounding skull that were being attacked from all sides.

Warm fingers pushed into the fine, damp curls at his neck, treading carefully, cautious in the way they rubbed. She stayed firmly behind him, his back securely placed between faces.

“Are you OK?” Her voice was soft, concerned. He took in another breath, lungs burning a little less, heart a little slower. He nodded his head, lips she couldn’t see pursed, heavy lids closed, wet lashes resting on clammy cheeks; the motion sending her fingers a little further into his hair. 

Hair she’d never touched.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The question lingered in the air. They did talk about it. He told her what was in his heart with his hands and hips and grunts.

The air changed when she asked, “Do you want to talk about _her?_ ” He couldn’t keep his body from stiffening; that back growing in size, looming. His tongue was heavy, stuck between teeth that were so firmly pressed together, jaw so tightly clenched, that he wasn’t sure they’d ever open again. So he didn’t say anything for a while. Until he finally found that he could.

Her words reminded him of snakes and metal.

_Come on, just breathe._

His eyes began looking towards the window he’d let himself in at, fingers twitching around the balled up mask in his palm.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was barely a whisper. Her fingers climbed a little higher into his hair, soft tips of them brushing behind his ears; his brows furrowed further as they climbed and the warmth of her spread down his neck.

“Have you seen someone about it?” He stood then and started walking towards the far wall, where he could escape out into the stars and quiet darkness; where he could talk to the paint over drywall and the rain tracks at the glass instead of her closeness.

“I don’t know - ”

Her sigh was exhausted, sad, and crushing, “Peter,” she begged, like it was nothing, like it meant nothing.

A name meant _everything._

His heart ached as the sound traveled from her chest, past her lips and into his soul. He turned to look at her then, eyes meeting properly, without a back or a mask between them for the first time in a year. His heart broke a little more when the sad smile on her lips touched her eyes and she was just this thing made entirely of melancholy, sitting on her knees, arms wrapped around a chest he knew, but didn’t; she had eyes, and they could look right into his.

His must have been asking.

“I’ve known the whole time, Peter,” she was standing now, words cautious as she took small steps towards where he stood, tentative fingers reaching for anything he’d still let her touch. A careful palm found a terrified hand, “I was hoping that eventually you’d tell me yourself. That maybe whatever this was-,” then she paused and looked at question mark eyes, “- _is_ , would help.” Her fingers were slowly trekking up to touch a still damp face, curious tips smoothing over a scratchy collar bone, “But it hasn’t, and it’s been too long.”

He found himself frowning and pulling away; another step closer to the window, fingers shaking out his mask in preparation, throwing it over his face before she could touch it like she’d touched his hair.

Too much.

Too exposed.

His hand met with glass and he pushed at the frame, the sounds of the city at night rushing into a room full of heavy breath and lingering words as it gave way.

“Peter, come on - ” He flinched at those words, too much, too similar, too familiar, in the way they slammed into his brain.

“No,” he said with a quiet voice; not even sure if he believed himself, turning away from the eyes he’d only really just met, before he could see any more of his own sadness reflected in them. 

He was out the window and into the night before her lips could have another chance at his chest.

* * *

 

_**Let me know what you guys think! I really enjoy your feedback, good or bad.** _


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The naming. That’s what you had done. Breaking the careful, crumbling illusion he had maintained for over a year, crushing it, resulting in a disappearance. But then suddenly, he was here and deciding that maybe, it was time to stop falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is 23/24. 
> 
> Warnings: Hurt/Angst/Mentions of death/Nightmares/too many metaphors

Your fingers closed around the familiar tube of lipstick you favored, smoothing on the waxy stain over dry, sleepy lips, eyes staring back at you from the toothpaste speckled mirror; reflection of a face running on the fumes of an anxious mind.  Looking at yourself, at how much your face had changed in a year, at how much more of your shoulders were blanketed by the curls you’d carefully manufactured, the steadily increasing layers of paint under your eyes brushed on to hide sleepless nights, colorful lips pulling into a worrying frown as your weary bones sighed into the space between faces. 

You nodded at your mirrored companion, turning off the light on your way out of the bathroom, grabbing your wallet and keys before closing the door to your apartment, off to work at the place where you’d first seen him.

Before the naming, Spider-Man’s visits had been becoming more and more frequent. Sometimes there was sex; rough, distanced physicality seeming to be the only thing his body would allow him to answer with. Sometimes, he would talk, Peter would talk, voice soft and cautious like the way he carried himself, his shoulders, when he was exhausted; when the frayed edges of him seemed most fragile and tattered.

You liked when he talked, when he forgot himself and allowed parts of that shining man you’d seen a year ago to climb up from the deep, dark well of that _something_ he’d fallen into; was still falling into.

 _Falling_ : a word that had ripped from drowsy lips and tore through the space of your bedroom on more than one occasion.

Sometimes his voice rang out into the air like sweet, sweet honey; a sugar coated laugh would bubble out of his chest when your words accidentally fell into that well; voice echoing off the walls, light of it feeding the greenery in the cracks between stones as it splashed through his chest, the sounds of his laughter fluttering on unsteady wings to rest on the branch of your growing affection.

Always, he caught himself, light never lasting for long, never allowing it to flourish; crushing that shimmering thing before you could grow too attached.

_But you were already attached._

Why else would you have allowed this to go on for so long?

Most times he just sat there quietly in the apartment, wrapped up in thoughts that he couldn’t share, not even through hot, pressed flesh. He’d sit with backs of thighs on the corner of a messy bed, at the edge of a scratched up second-hand table, lanky limbs curled into themselves at the end of a loveseat, a pillow carefully slid beneath a masked head when he managed to find some semblance of peaceful sleep; red and blue harsh and bright against the much duller colors decorating your life.

Spider-Man fit into your décor as well as you could hope; uncomfortable twinge in the chambers of your over extended heart when he chose instead to lie down among sheets and pillows on a lumpy, old mattress rather than whatever surface best put his back to your chest.

Spider-Man asked the most difficult questions.

Peter Parker asked soft, gentle ones.

* * *

It was Peter Parker that liked to cuddle in his sleep; starved limbs winding themselves around a nourishing body, but only ever in the soup of unconsciousness.

Peter Parker snored lightly when he lay on his left side; light, stuttering breaths pushing through a woven lycra barrier in ticklish puffs, fine hairs at your neck dancing in time with his slow exhale.

Peter Parker was an artist, painting his works with warm fingers on bare flesh.

But it was Peter Parker and Spider-Man both, who suffered debilitating, all-consuming nightmares; feverish retellings of the night that crushed the man who loved a woman so much that she wasn’t a woman, but this glowing, ethereal thing. Horror stories from rescues gone wrong, where numbers had been called and names listed; haunting, warped imagery of all the ways death had found him and life had failed. 

Once he had fled from sheets, pillows, and warm palms, whispering coming from him in between frantic breaths about terrifying, menacing figures with glowing jewels and Universes collapsing into the single burning point where trembling, clenched fingers smothered a pounding heart.

He’d tried to rip his suit off more than once when his body told him he was being crushed himself, his mind transforming fabric into concrete, turning cool, clean air into dust that suffocated panicked lungs. On those nights he talked about glowing green eyes.

_The crushing. The naming. Falling._

_Peter Parker._

To him, a name was everything, meant _everything_ ; you could say it and think it and feel it all at the same time.

Even in death.

You had hoped that if you spoke it out loud, (his name) if you could say it in such a way that he _understood_ then maybe he would let you say other things, too. Maybe he would let you think and feel other things. 

More importantly, **_he_** might say, think, and feel _something_ other than **_her._**

Maybe he would let you _really_ help him.

_Did he have other people, other women he sought out? Did he have a family? Was there anyone else fighting for Peter Parker?_

But now you were thinking that maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea; the naming, perhaps he was so far gone that even such a thing as that had been enough to push what little of him you had in the space of your apartment out of your life for good.

You hadn’t seen him in two months.

You had kept your window unlocked every night; had even scrubbed the panes of the glass just to be sure that he hadn’t forgotten which entry was yours, just to be sure that he could see that you were still here, in the hopes that you might wake up and he’d be standing there with stooped shoulders and heavy limbs. 

Or that he’d come for your arms and the crook of a neck to hide his face in like he had months before, passing through the barrier and into a steamy room where he’d picked you up in strong arms and faced you for the first time and had allowed chests to meet and the approximation of a cheek to chafe against yours as his body told yours the things his lips couldn’t.

Lips that had never found a place to stay on your skin.

He had been on the news a few times. He hadn’t disappeared from the world, just from yours. At least you could take comfort in knowing he hadn’t sunk into the murky water at the bottom of that well.

The elevator dinged, pulling you back from yourself as metal doors opened to the already bustling floor of the Bugle; walking past chattering voices and shuffling files, coming to a stop at a desk positioned in an awkward corner just outside of Mr. Jameson’s office; internship having gone so well the man had decided to hire you on as his personal secretary.

He knew you wanted to write, wanted your name under headlines.

He assured you this was a good place to start.

Who were you to turn down a paid position despite the protesting of your heart?

Your fingers found the stack of files you’d tucked away late last night in the drawer by your feet, wallet and keys clunking on wood as you swapped them out. You’d barely had enough time to tuck knees underneath your desk before a voice; one that with each passing morning was rapidly becoming a nuisance, was eating up the air. It wasn’t even that he was rude or over bearing; truthfully he was a nice guy and good looking, too, but in the way that made you feel warm and not like you were burning.

He was only a buzzing, because it wasn’t the honey voice you wanted smoothing the air of the noisy place, speaking to you in ways that _he_ never had.

“Good morning,” he smiled, holding a steaming mug out to you, strong smell of coffee carried on your inhale.

“Good morning,” you returned, smile on your face not quite reaching your cheeks.

The caffeinated offering hung in the air a moment past comfortable. When you didn’t take it from him, he sat it down at the corner of your desk, smile on his friendly face fading a little. His hands found khaki pockets. You looked down at the files your not-so-comfortable fingers began fumbling with.

“Listen, I don’t know what going on with you,” and he was leaning closer to you,  hand that wasn’t red with fine black stripes along the length of it reaching, fingers that were propositioning, free from a pocket and honing in on yours, “but I just wanted to let you know that I’m here to talk.” You looked at dry knuckles and the clean, short fingernails of his hand as they buried your shy one, trapping it between a wrinkled palm and swirling knots on hard wood.

When you looked up to read his eyes, you found that they were sincere and you couldn’t help but to smile, “Thank you,” you murmured, “that’s very kind,” finding your voice as he grinned, your heart twisting in longing; mind trying to imagine what another set of lips would look like stretched over a different set of teeth, cheeks lifting just for you. 

But then his fingers were wrapping further around your sweaty ones and he was leaning in a little further, the palm of his other hand finding a place on your desk, trapping you as he loomed.

“You know, maybe we could go get a drink somet-” the words in his throat caught with a gurgling sound, his eyes bulging in shock and fear as the collar of his shirt tightened around his neck, threads at the seams popping in a few places as he was yanked backwards towards a dirty carpet. You were sure your face bore a similar expression when his rear hit the floor with a loud thump, pen falling from his pocket, and there, standing where he had been was the fuming face of Peter Parker. Nostrils flared, brows furrowed and chest pumping as he breathed.

He was looking at you with this terrible, angry, confused expression on a pale, tired face.

You noticed then how long he’d let his hair grow, wild curls taking over the tops of red ears and hiding the washed out skin of a tense brow.

You looked and he breathed.

“What the hell, Parker?” you heard Jameson call from the cracked door of his office, anyone who hadn’t already frozen in place was now looking at you and the stiff posture of the man staring you down.

As confused and embarrassed as you were beneath the gaze of so much scrutiny, the only thing you could think, only thing your heart was shouting into your veins was that he was here. He was here, and those were his eyes, eyes that you’d forgotten were like earth and honey and warmth.

But everything else about him was coiled tightly, entire body tense as his mind worked through what he’d just done; you could see his eyes rewinding and playing the scene out again and again, until his expression changed, and he was softening, crumbling, looking from you to him and to the ground as his brows finally settled on confused and upset.

_Was this jealousy?_

He wasn’t looking at you anymore.  
  
“I let you back in here after more than a year of nothing and you’re already causing trouble,” Jameson’s voice getting louder as the door to his office swung open and he approached, poorly shined shoes coming to stand over the bewildered man pulling himself off the ground, arms crossed, lips set in a frown beneath a too-dark mustache, “what gives, Parker?”  
  
Despite his irritation, there was something in his voice, softness that almost read like care; like he knew how thin the thread was holding him together.  
  
Of course he knew, she’d shined her light in this very office.

* * *

Her picture had run in the paper.  
  
“Sorry,” words coming out as Peter turned away, body already moving towards the exit, “it won’t happen again,” and when he said it, as his thumbnail turned white and the little down arrow that meant he wouldn’t be here anymore lit up, it felt like those words were meant for you.  
  
Maybe it was time to ask questions of him instead of only answering.  
  
Maybe it was time you followed him out the window and into the world he lived in.  
  
So when the elevator signaled and finger smudged doors opened, you were a flurry of hands as you grabbed your wallet and keys, gesturing to Jameson, “Sorry, sorry, but I have to,” not waiting for his answer before your legs were pumping and you tripped over clumsy feet, stumbling past rapidly closing doors, falling in to look up into glossy, brown eyes.  
  
For a moment all there was between you was tense, charged air trapped in the claustrophobic space of the metal box and cramped lungs. You could hear your heart throbbing in your ears, were sure that he could probably hear it too. Your eyes worked as quickly as they could to take him all in, cataloguing every feature, all of his lines, the hairs at his eyebrows, the wrinkled collar of his shirt, his throat bobbing as he swallowed nervously, his chest as it moved and he breathed through an almost-straight nose that was smattered with barely there freckles you’d never really been close enough to see until now.  
  
Your body had moved closer to his before you’d really even been aware of it. When your eyes finally got to his frowning, confused lips, lips that were pink and chapped and thinner than you remembered, the only thing you could think about was how they would feel if you brought yours up to shake hands with his.  
  
You shivered when you realized he was looking at you, too. Your stomach clenched and fluttered when you realized those eyes were on painted lips.  
  
Your breath caught when you realized he wasn’t running, wasn’t looking for a window to leap out of as you leaned into him, charged, tense, confusing air between lips that were strangers to each other despite the familiarity of the bodies they belonged to; bodies that tingled and shook the closer they got to each other.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry,” his voice broke and you shook your head, “I don’t know.”  
  
“But I do,” you whispered back, a hand settling over a firm chest and pounding heart.  
  
His brow furrowed and his frown grew deeper as you brought shaky hands up to the hard line of his jaw and cheek; excited, anxious, and jittery as your nerves absorbed the heat coming from the skin there for the first time. There were tears threatening to overwhelm dark lashes as thumbs smoothed over freckles and bruised, baggy eyes.  
  
“I can’t,” his lips said, but his eyes were pleading.  
  
“It’s okay,” fingers fluttering around the soft, but tense skin of pursed lips, “Peter, let me help you.”  
  
He was shaking his head with furrowed brows, “It’s – I ca – I’m sor -  Please,” words closing in, warm wisps of trembling air caressing your lips, and you were nodding again, desperate for his eyes as his quiet plea squeezed its way between the cage around your heart, the pain of it crushing. __  
  
Crushing.  
  
When he finally looked up from your lips, his eyes were a question mark and yours were answering.  
  
_It’s okay_ they said again, _I’m still here_ , they whispered, _Peter_ , they begged.  
  
Brown eyes looked into you, seeing, deciding.  
  
Then he nodded and you pulled his face to yours, lips meeting in an embrace that was soft and gentle and anything but empty. He whimpered because it was terrifying.  
  
It was terrifying because it was _something._  
  
Salty tears fell from him and onto your cheeks and he was crying but he was pushing, too, lips surging as the storm of everything he was feeling crashed into you, stiff fingers crawling up your neck and lacing themselves into almost-flat curls, pulling so that the angle changed and he could swallow all of you beneath the waves.  
  
The feeling of finally meeting him, of knowing Peter Parker had you flying and falling at the same time, wings of your heart fluttering, bouncing between ribs and a tight throat.  
  
_Peter Parker._  
  
Falling.  
  
He was here.  
  
You found that your tears tasted the same as oceans mixed and the saltiness of his and yours collided together and trickled between the cracks between moistened lips and curious tongues. When your lungs started burning and you realized you’d been holding your breath you hesitantly pulled away from this first meeting.  
  
Looking into those eyes again you could see the beginnings of an answer forming there behind the question.  
  
When the elevator dinged and he _still_ wasn’t running, you thought, hoped, that maybe he was ready to grab at the rope you’d thrown into the well.  
  
Maybe now he was beginning to see that there was still a moon hanging in the sky.  
  
It was covered in different craters and reflecting light from a different sun, but it was a light all the same, and perhaps he was ready for the falling to stop and for gravity to catch him in a slightly more wobbly orbit _,_ but one that was here and okay.

* * *

****_And now, we climb..._  
  
Let me know what you guys think. Feedback is always appreciated. 


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The deciding; three months had passed and your lips still tingled every time he decided to reaffirm that decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is 25.

Three months had passed since you’d met in the elevator.

Three months since _the deciding;_ earthquake mind slowing it’s rattling in the space of that box where unguarded eyes had met without the protection of a disguise. Borders and lines that were known and understood were finally, _finally_ crossed; doors opening along with the shiny metal ones with an unquestionable ding that rung through ears the same way his choice had vibrated in your chest.

Three months had passed and your lips still tingled every time he decided to reaffirm that decision.

The days after, after the deciding, had been filled with tears and more nightmares than you were really prepared to handle. There were nights after intense sessions; where he’d strip himself of that second identity entirely, leaving it in a shrunken pile at your feet, bare fingers touching at wet faces and salty lips working to ease that crushing feeling in a fallen chest, bodies moving in sync to the beat of pounding hearts.

Nights where he would wake drenched in sweat, gasping for air that his lungs kept telling him he was at a loss for. A weary soul crying out into the dark, the whole of him trembling, his stomach heaving, peeling himself from tangled sheets on shaky legs to expel poisonous thoughts into porcelain that never judged. 

You likened it to detoxing, like one did coming off of alcohol or drugs; he had been addicted to falling and then floating on the waters of limbo and indecision.

The two of you spent many hours curled up on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, damp skin attaching itself, bodies tangling, his between your legs; falling into the safety of your arms, a damp wash cloth running over the burning skin that lay cradled between breasts; sticky, sweaty curls clinging to the skin there the way his ears clung to the heartbeat that sung lullabies until heavy eyelids won out and he could try to sleep peacefully again.

* * *

 

 

* * *

 

_“That’s it, sweetheart, get it out,” you whispered, hands working to pull damp curls from his eyes as his head hung over the toilet, muscles of his abdomen pulsing as he heaved and gagged, “It’s okay, Peter,” fingers swiping away tears dangling from cheeks and a quivering chin. Gentle hands found their way down his back, trying their best to work away the tension there as the last of the upset worked itself out of him; body doing its best to detox._

_“I – I’m s-sorry,” he forced between glossy lips, looking up at you with muddy eyes; you were already shaking your head firmly at him before he could fully get the words out._

_“Oh **no**_ , _sweetheart, you don’t apologize for this,” and his eyes were hanging on your every word, begging for more, pleading for **something** ; his breathing was still fighting to catch up with itself between imagined terrors and forcing vile thoughts from his exhausted body, “you don’t **ever** apologize for this. OK?”_

_He rocked backwards on the balls of bare feet, falling onto his rear, curls bouncing off his forehead as he hit the tile, as the sticky skin of his back meshed against your chest; you didn’t hesitate to wrap your arms around him, continuing to push sweaty locks from closed, tired eyes.  Only now, you were working to cool him, too, dousing the inflamed parts of his brain with the cold fabric of a washcloth, diligently wiping away the night._

_“OK, Peter?” You asked again, voice needy, wanting to be sure he knew._

_“OK,” he whispered, hair sticking to the skin between your breasts, tangling as he nodded his head._

_“Good,” you declared, “Now, we’re going to breathe. Breathe with me, Peter,” and you drew in a deep, steady breath, holding it until he did the same, nose pulling in the same air you’d drawn into your lungs. His chest moved with yours as you released the tension, as he let go of those diseased thoughts with a great exhale._

_You did that again and again, guiding him until his lungs had calmed and the racing of his heart matched the gentle beating of yours; the weight of him and his troubled mind leaning fully into the chest holding the heart that ached with each exhale; nastiness carried on the air and into the open for scrutiny._

_“That’s good, sweetheart, just like that,” you whispered into his ear, nose pushing through drying curls, lips finding tender skin to place a soft kiss on._

* * *

 

Those nights were especially rough, but you did it because he had decided to allow your hands to push raging thoughts out of him with fingers through his hair and sure, warm thumbs to wipe away salty tears and soft words to finally, _finally_ smooth their way down to his bruised heart.

He had decided to give the answers you offered his question a chance.

When he’d brought you to meet Ned and May, everything else about him made sense; why there still seemed to be this dim light shining through the murky waters of the well. If there was ever any question as to what had kept him from disappearing beneath its surface entirely, they were the answer. Ned and May both loved Peter wholly and unconditionally, and when your eyes had looked into the soul of May’s and then Ned’s you could see the pain there, but also the desperate way they loved the man who was only just beginning to climb.

When May’s observant gaze had fallen on the way the tips of Peter’s fingers lingered on yours as he led you through the door of her apartment, she’d smiled.

May was always touching Peter. Whether it was a hand on a shoulder, or a palm on his cheek, fingers through his curls, or her eyes mapping his face, she was always in contact with him. And she asked questions, doing her best to keep him talking, careful and cautious in everything she did. 

Asking and waiting for him to answer in her kind, patient way.

You could see her in Peter; when he let that light shine and his dripping honey laugh to fill your chest or when he touched you like he were painting. Sometimes he painted with words, too.

May was _good_ and so was Peter.

_Peter was good._

Even when he didn’t remember that he was.

After that first meeting, standing between the threshold of her apartment, she’d whispered heavy words into the space between your ear, “He’s trying, [Y/N.] He’s really trying, I can see him there, behind all of _that_ in his eyes,” her arms that were wrapped around your chest were warm, inviting, and smelling of lavender and peppermint toothpaste, “It’s when he touches you that it’s there.”

Ned was much the same as May in that he was kind and always patient with Peter. Ned made Peter smile. Ned made Peter laugh. He never pushed; he asked questions and waited for answers, just as she did.

Just as you did.

When Ned’s glittering eyes had lingered on the way you hung on every quiet word that pushed past his friend’s lips, listening, trying your absolute best to just _understand_ what he was meaning, how he was _really_ feeling with every sound and expression, he’d smiled.

It was obvious that Peter loved Ned and May.

That night when you lay beneath shared sheets listening to the soft puffs of air breaking free from his lips as they blew across your chest with arms wound around broad, freckled shoulders, and sleepy curls weaving between fingers, you thought about people who held things together without having to be asked and how lucky this man was.

You thought back to when you’d wondered if maybe he had another body he sought out on the nights he didn’t show. There was part of you that had feared you were the flesh and someone else was the heart.

Your fears hadn’t been entirely unjustified: Ned and May had been the heart.

It was only recently that you were beginning to realize that, maybe, you were, too.

You had only been a small part of the puzzle; one of the screws holding up the shelf of his guilt, keeping him from being completely crushed and buried so entirely that there would be no climbing out from under the debris.

* * *

 

It was five months before the tears stopped falling anytime he pushed aside his alter self and kissing and touching and colliding were no longer messy or rushed and was just _something_ instead.

Nearly a half a year before he’d roll over and wrap bare, golden arms around ribs and hips and hands, breathing freely into ticklish hairs at the back of a warm neck without being under the guise of sleep.

* * *

 

_You both lay together on a lumpy mattress, lines of bodies blurred for how tangled limbs were; hairs on his legs tickling at the skin of yours, while soft breaths from your lips tickled at his chest. The tips of his fingers pushed through silken hair at your temple, brushing over sensitive ears that worked to listen to the sound of him and what he was beneath the planes of a firm chest and sensitive cage._

_His croaky voice broke the silence when he breathed out words that set the bird of your heart aflutter in its own cage, “You’re beautiful, you know,” and you felt his lips in your hair then, warmth of them spreading down to your toes, “I don’t think I’ve told you that and I need you to know.”_

_Despite the excitement of your starved heart, the stomach inside your brain curdled, because you knew why he thought that, knew why he picked you to begin with. And normally, you were OK with that, you could accept it as it is, was, but not wrapped up in him like this._

_It wasn’t OK when he was a little more like the man made of light you’d worshiped a long, long time ago._

_The worst, most painful part of it being that he was **still** that man, he’d just temporarily forgotten.  
_

_“You mean,_ **she** _was beautiful,” and as soon as the words left your lips, you felt guilty; honest to goodness, sick to your stomach guilty, but you hadn’t been able to stop them from spilling from that place in your mind that held on to the fear that eventually, he’d recognize this for himself and disappear out of that window again._

_To your surprise, he didn’t run, didn’t untangle himself, instead, he rose a pair of brows at you for your bravery, “I see it, I’m not delusiona - ”_

_You cut him off quickly before he could finish, shaking your head furiously at him, “No. No, Peter, I don – that’s not - ” and he cut you off with a set of warm, familiar fingers at your chin, lifting so that you couldn’t help but to meet his eyes._

_“I know,” nodding his head, the barest of smiles pulling at the corners of his lips, “just listen, OK?”_

_You couldn’t keep your eyebrows from furrowing and the corners of your own lips from dropping along with your stomach, nervous anticipation rolling through your veins._

_He looked at you, asking, waiting for you to respond. So you nodded.  
_

_Your heart dropped a little when he began again, “Yes,_ **she** _**was** , everything about her was beautiful,” and you couldn’t keep from frowning; you understood, you really did, but it was difficult and confusing; not quite crushing, but **something** , “but, so are you, in a **different** way.”_

_With the closeness of your bodies, you knew he could feel how quickly your hummingbird heart was fluttering._

_The warm, brown of his eyes were urging, asking for you to listen, answering you with everything he was capable of, “I used to see_ **her** _, all I saw were_ **her** _cheek bones, and_ **her** _lips, and hair that was similar and hurt. I don’t deny that,” you nodded your head, heart still pounding, but no longer because it was afraid, “but now, now I see **you**. I see your nose, and your lips, your constellation freckles, and too-serious eyebrows,” he lowered his voice and made a face as the last words left him, expression making you smile, “eyebrows that I’ve made serious. I see your heart, I see your soul, and I don’t know if what I see or what I feel is love, and I don’t – I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that again, but it’s **something. It’s something.**_ _I just need you to know that at least.”_

_The deciding._

_And then he’d held you as you cried, really, **finally** crying, whispering in your ear, “just breathe, breathe, sweetheart,” doing his best to answer the way that you had for him when he needed it most._

* * *

 

He didn’t leave out of cloud stained windows anymore.

But there were still nightmares. There were still places he couldn’t escape; weights wrapped around wet ankles as the rest of him peered over the slippery stone at the top of the well. It was at the end of that fifth month, after that conversation that meant he was signing on that dotted line, sealing his decision, that you’d convinced him to seek help from the Avengers.

He decided he was ready to talk to someone about **her.**

About them; to list off their names.

You’d sat in the back seat with him, fingers woven together, occasionally offering doses of strength with measured squeezes as May drove; her eyes smiling back at him when their eyes met in the rear view mirror.

It had been unusually hot and sticky that day; his team members taken by surprise when the car pulled into the long, elaborate drive; trim, toned bodies clad in bathing suits as they bonded through chlorinated water and cold drinks.

You’d been the one to get out of the car first; Peter too nervous, too reluctant and maybe a little embarrassed. You’d been the one to introduce yourself to these familiar strangers; Pepper had let you in, sensing your urgency the moment his name had left your lips like a plea. 

You’d also been the one to cry first, silent tears rolling down red cheeks, falling on to the already wet ground of the pool deck, imploring.

It hadn’t been necessary; they’d been waiting for this, had been throwing ropes for months after the crushing, until he’d just stopped showing up or answering calls.

Tony Stark had shed tears for him; had sat with his arms wrapped securely around his heaving chest, holding the cracks together as Peter opened himself, as he finally, _finally_ asked his mentor for help.

_Deciding._

Bucky Barnes had touched his face with cold, metal fingers, eyes full of understanding and answers. “I told them you’d ask, when you were ready. You’d come back when you were ready.” Then he’d told him of how much he’d loved his friend, how his soul still ached for him, for Steve Rogers, but that it was always OK because he had never really left.

Not really.

You and May had watched from behind dirty windows as Natasha gave him one of her gentle smiles, coaxing him into her car; clothes thrown hastily over a swimsuit, shape of it leeching it’s wetness onto dry clothing. Watched as he slid into the passenger seat and drove off with her, gas tank full of hope, and tears, and newly forming promises. She lead him to a hidden office building a little further upstate, setting him free in front of a wooden door with an official set of letters decorating the wood.

“This is right,” and May’s hand was wrapped around yours, her big, brown eyes; and even though they weren’t shared by blood, they were the same as the ones you knew better than your own, full of tears laced with her enduring strength, “he’s making his way back to us.”

* * *

 

Eight months after that first decision, the one made between dirty, metal walls and the nightmares were finally, _finally_ lessening in frequency and intensity, the dark bags that you thought for sure were permanent residents were starting to pack up and disappear, his curls were no longer dull, and you found that you loved the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and the brown of them warmed the whole of you like a cup of tea on a rainy day when he smiled.

His therapist had been working with him several times a week, talking to him, listening, offering him all of the ways she knew how to best cope with the black, murky well water of post-traumatic stress disorder; all kind words and sympathetic eyes.

The medication she’d prescribed had helped for a short time; if only to keep him from submerging, but his enhanced metabolism burned through the chemicals in his blood so fast that the dosage amount required to even band aid the scratches in his mind quickly became worrying.

She’d changed tactics after a month.

She focused on teaching him how to turn those thoughts into safe ones, ones that he could catalog and analyze in a way that lifted instead of crushed who he was. She talked him through his guilt in ways that you couldn’t, and he couldn’t.

It wasn’t long before that list of names: _Henry, Jen, Robert, Maria, Eric, Aaron, Liam, Cindy, Ben, Timothy, Quinn, Susan, Kevin, James, **Her** , _no longer burned at the backs of tired eye lids or desired to be shouted into dark rooms from stranger lips so that guilty ears could feed a ravenous, lustful brain. Instead, he’d learned to put them away in a quiet corner of his mind to memorialize in a way that was benign and understood; although the letters of them would forever be branded on his heart, he could nurture the scar in a way he was incapable of before.

You’d gone with him to these sessions more often than not; a hand to hold when he needed it, fingers to soothe away the anxiety from a tense neck. Sometimes you spoke, filling in the gaps for him when his breathing went ragged and there weren’t enough ways for him to find words desperately needing said.

You understood, so you helped his therapist to when he couldn’t.

The change in him in three short months was nothing short of miraculous.

On most days, he talked and laughed more, especially when Ned was there to make him glow with jokes, games, and memories he had finally decided it was OK to talk about. Things were better; you were beginning to allow yourself to hope that maybe the man you’d seen for the first time nearly two years ago was finally, _finally_ making his way out of the dark.

He was alight more now than he was this dim, sullen thing dragging himself through the days where it was still too much, too fast, too similar; especially since you’d taken up his therapist on her advice and had gotten him a pet.

At first he had been all grumbled, grumpy words and furrowed eyebrows; until he’d woken up sweating and panting from a rogue nightmare.

* * *

 

_“Peter?” you called out into the apartment, carefully setting the cardboard box down at your feet, turning to lock the door behind you, hanging your keys up; his keys were already there, dangling on the hook closest to the door. You could hear faint voices and tinkling music playing out of the speakers on the TV, colorful lights dancing on the air in the rapidly dimming light, pink and orange rays of it pouring in through locked windows; heard when the hard plastic of the remote clanked against the wooden table as he rose to get up from the couch._

_“I’m here,” words drawn out as he stretched, arms above his head reaching for the ceiling, sliver of a pale, toned stomach peeking out from the bottom of his shirt. Sharp eyes quickly locked on to the white box between your shoes when it shook, scooting an inch or so forward, a tiny squeak of a noise escaping from the holes lining its sides. He dropped his arms, crossing them above his chest._

_“Was that - is that, a cat?” Question mark eyes posed beneath furrowed, funny brows. You smiled and nodded your head, dropping the plastic bags full of goods to the side, fingers working to crack open the cardboard, releasing a furry little Russian Blue kitten from its insides._

_“Dr. Brown thought it would be a good idea,” you supplied, smile growing as you watched stumpy legs and a short, pointy tail move awkwardly across the wood floor towards the socked feet of the man a few mile-long boards in front of it._

_“I don’t need a cat.”_

_“I know.”_

_“I don’t even **like** cats,” as he said it, a dark, moist nose sniffed at stoic feet, pausing in its passing to look up at brown eyes with a pair of bright yellow ones. It mewed, and you could see that he was fighting to keep his expression displeased._

_“Peter, come on, look at him,” you dropped down to your knees, sitting on your heels to run a big hand over soft, blue-grey fur; bony back arching into it as you scratched._

_“I am,” and he was walking back over to the couch, throwing his next words over his shoulder, “he’s **your**_ _cat.”_

_But his tune changed when he woke from a nightmare a few days later to warm, delicate pads of paws kneading at his collar, cold, wet nose kissing at his neck, whiskers tickling his jaw, and the comforting rumble of his tiny chest vibrating as the little thing worked his hardest to calm his man. You watched with sleepy eyes as Peter came to, pulled from the glaze of his nightmare gently; as he realized what he was being given, tender smile pulling at his lips as his hands found fur and held the little body to him, accepting the gift and care being offered._

_“Thanks buddy,” he whispered to this new friend._

_Your voice floated over the purring to whisper, “I named him Sputnik,” and he looked at you with glowing eyes and laughed and laughed, the whole of him shining, pushing back at the dark and fueling the flame in your heart that waited, always, for him to set it ablaze._


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crushing, the falling, the deciding, the climb; in that moment, he wondered on shapes and colors and textures: what sort of feathers would that hummingbird have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is 25.

His head was throbbing, sounds of morning in their apartment beating at the insides of his skull. From the moment he’d opened his eyes on this dreary day, he’d noticed immediately that his senses were on hyper drive. The sound of the sheets slipping off his waist was a sun-bleached tarp crinkling as the wind pummeled its surface, the pads of his bare feet meeting with wood as he swung his legs over the side of the bed a sledgehammer to concrete; her breathing like a hurricane, Sputnik lapping at his water bowl across the room the pattering rain to match.

Everything was too loud.

The throbbing increased when the clouds outside a dirty, locked window cleared and the sun came pouring in through curtains covered in cat hair; loose weaving in spots where sharp claws had decided to make their mark. With eyelids glued together tightly, lids crinkling, and brows furrowing, he tenderly rubbed at ears with rough fingers; the sound of his flesh pressing against itself like scratchy sandpaper. The beaming, white light burning his skin with its heat; backs of eyelids blazing red and flashing black as he squeezed harder and harder to keep the sun from beating any further into his over stimulated mind. The hairs on his arms and legs standing, skin pimpling as it sometimes did.

His sense was off.

Had been off since it had happened.

_The crushing._

Sometimes it was like this when he woke from nightmares and his body was still on high alert; muscles tense, ears perked, eyesight dialed up, and heart racing, the whole of him ready for action; overwhelming sensations, everything heightened to the point where it was nearly unbearable.

Dr. Brown had told him to breathe through it, had convinced him that he had it within himself to take control of it; he could expel the intensity with purposeful breaths.

She called it dumping.

There were other times where he dumped all of the excess out of him in the bathroom or a trash can, sick more from fear than anything else. Fear of danger and what those alarm bells often meant, what it sometimes led to.

Names: the list that he kept on hold in the restricted section; that webbed shelf in the back of his brain; letters from a fallen sky that forever branded the muscle strands of his heart.

But there was no danger here, not now.

So he let his diaphragm relax and the weight draped across tense, freckled shoulders to roll off of him and into the dark void of space he dumped those rare bad dreams into now. He pulled in the cool, clean air of the bedroom through greedy nostrils, into thirsty lungs, the spicy floral scent of _them_ coating his insides and lapping at fiery nerve endings. As he breathed, he told his ears to listen for the things that brought warmth and comfort; as they obeyed his mind in that way that was still fresh and new in that lighted room that existed outside of that well, the harsh, busy noises of the city gradually sunk deeper and deeper beneath anxious waves, all of those intruding sounds muffling until she was the only sensory object that mattered.

And in the narrow space of his storm shelter mind, there was only the slow, steady, sweet breathing of her; of his _something,_ and a too-small for his age cat sprawled out on his back in the path of the morning sun, paws perked, tail sweeping, blue fur a shiny pastel; luminous in that ray of light as he soaked up the morning in that funny way he did; the yellow in his eyes smiling up at him in good morning; asking him: _‘how much longer, Peter?’_

* * *

 

Then there was that tiny question mark, the _‘how much longer;’_ a precious hummingbird fluttering away. Hearing it, he could truly remember to breathe again, to breathe for her, for it, and for himself instead of just for clarity.

When sheets that were just sheets again rustled, and her cool palm ran up his back, over the bones, freckles, and scars marring the canvas of his skin, followed by delicate fingers weaving themselves into the web of his hair, it burned. Hyper nerves temporarily re-igniting, stinging, screaming at him, at her hand as she slowly traversed the flesh there with still-sleepy skin of her own; stinging gradually turning into a tingling, a buzzing, and finally into that familiar warmth when her fingernails scratched at messy curls.

The sensation made the whole of him shiver, as the heat of her met with his very soul and left it quaking in _relief._

She was _something._

She was warmth, but also a balm; much needed water for the parched landscape of his heart; terrain burnt and covered in ash, remnants from when **_she_** had left, when her fire had stopped burning and rage had taken over.

She had burrowed into that ashen place, taking root, green of her sprouting and flourishing where he thought it impossible for anything more to grow.

When her lips found their place behind his ear and the curve of her stomach pressed into his side, he released a breath he’d forgotten about, too wrapped up in holding the air that carried her scent deep within his lungs. Her breathing not so loud anymore, cars outside the window in the street below no longer glaringly obvious, the off kilter fan blade of Sputnik’s tail now a gentle swishing, and the flapping wings of that little bird became muffled; only there if he really listened for it.

But he could _feel_ it, pushing at him in that space where her skin pressed into his; three sets of wings flapping furiously against each other; knowing each other, caressing the other with promises.

His hair still stood on end.

_Dumping._

Her lips found that place again, pink flesh of plumped skin dry with sleep, his skin sticking to the ridges of them as she pulled only far enough away from freckles and fine hair to whisper kissed words, “Good morning, sweetheart,” he closed his eyes as she punctuated with another kiss, comma of her lips pausing a sentence just a little lower; heat of it enticing, skin still aflame with sensitivity, “you look beautiful in starlight.”

He couldn’t keep his lips from pulling up at the corners.

A jealous cat mewed from the floor, soaking in his own bath of starlight; tired, raspy laugh escaping her lips and bleeding into his heart; little hummingbird trilling as the sound of happiness bounced around the walls of its cage.

“You look beautiful, too, Nik,” she said, words deep, stretching along with the arms over her head, nickname catching on a yawn as she finished waking up. A pert bellybutton peeked out from beneath a borrowed shirt; brown of his eyes drawn, as they always were, to the shape of that part of her.

Even now, as the light painted her skin gold and the brown spots dotting the stretched, drum of her abdomen stood out in a way that begged to be touched and painted, he was afraid, afraid to touch her there.

Where she was something and _everything_ at the same time.

She knew but never pushed.

She waited.

She always waited for him to decide.

* * *

 

_He hadn’t expected to come home to this. He’d known there would be something; the few times he’d managed to patch comms through to speak to her, the chords of her voice had been drawn tight and her eyes were pinched, like she was working desperately to keep something from bursting out of her chest. It felt wrong and empty when he’d said goodbye last because she hadn’t smiled; hadn’t pulled those cheeks up for him, the moth in his chest unable to find the light in her eyes that it was so drawn to._

_He had been gone for nearly three months._

_She had convinced him that it would be good for him, that it would help to get out of his city, help to check out more completely from that restricted section in the library of his thoughts if he went on this mission with his team; with more of those people who loved him and worked to put together the pieces of him without needing to be asked._

_More people who never pushed._

_And he_ had _gone, and it had been_ good.

_Truthfully, he’d missed it; Tony’s sarcastic wit, Bucky and Sam’s bantering back and forth; the both of them afraid to let on what the other meant, but still obvious in intent, Natasha’s shared looks as she shook her head, tender smile of hers crooked on her full, painted lips._

_He missed Steve’s kind eyes._

_He had missed her._

_He didn’t know it while he was busy taking punches and doing his best to pull Sam out of the line of fire, while he aimed web shooters at men and women with souls blackened far worse than many of the criminals he fought on his city’s streets, but he had missed the moment she had found out; had missed where she had decided not to tell him until he got back and could see it, could hear it for himself._

_He had missed the deciding; her deciding._

_That hummingbird flapping away in the core of her is what gave it away._

_He’d known the moment he’d walked in the door, the fluttering, the tiny bump beneath an almost too-tight shirt, the guilty, pleading, confused expression on her face. Standing in the doorway, bag still slung over a bruised shoulder, the only thing he could think about was how **she’d** disappeared abruptly from his life and how easily it could happen again._

_The fear he felt in that moment was crushing; his limbs had started to shake and he could feel himself begin to crumble the same way that building had years ago. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes started looking for a cracked window but all he could see was her and that bump and the look on her face that was whispering ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’_

_“Peter,” she finally spoke, voice soft; pleading, “I wanted to tell you,” she took a step closer and his body jerked; muscle memory beginning to kick in. This is when you leave. This is when you crawl back into that well of safety._

_But this woman **was** his safety, had become that well when he had decided on her._

_So he forced himself to stay._

_Deciding; his deciding._

_“H-how long?” He wasn’t really sure if he was asking how many days had passed since this fluttery thing had come to be, or how long he had before his world could possibly come crashing down all over again._

_“Almost four months.” Her words forced the air out of him and he felt the need to sit down, so he did, whole body crumpling to the floor, zippers clanking on the wood as the bottom of his bag smacked into it the same time as his rear, back of his head banging on the door he’d barely managed to close before he’d heard._

_He could almost hear the count down in his head._

Ten, Nine, Eight…

_She came over to him, crossing over swirling wood patterns with soft bare toes, sitting herself down on the floor next to him, the bones of her back rocking against the paneling of the door, crossing cotton clad legs together, waiting. She slowed her breathing, the sounds of her lungs pulling him in,  changing as she drew air in more carefully; a template for the answer the question his lungs had been asking._

_An unsteady, sweaty palm found the knuckles of the one she’d placed carefully on his knee, calloused fingers wrapping around soft, delicate ones. In that moment, he wondered on shapes and colors and textures: what sort of feathers would that hummingbird have?_

_Would it fly? Could it always? If he could keep the shears of his fear from clipping at them; if he could keep those shackles, weights that had held him under water for so long from resurfacing, maybe._

_Maybe._

_Maybe if he kept those names away; if he never touched the shapes and colors and textures with red-stained fingers, he could give it the sky forever. He could give it endless blue._

_He drew in a breath, reaching out for the guide wire she offered, matching the pull of his chest with the push of hers; breathing the same air that tiny bird thrived on._

_He squeezed those fingers; deciding._

_“OK,” he whispered, “It’s OK, we’ll be OK,” looking at her and into those eyes that were glittering like stars and the tears that threatened to jump from dark lashes; eyes that looked at him and saw only good things._

* * *

 

Hair that was much longer than he’d ever seen her wear it spilled over the tops of her shoulders. Her cheeks and eyes were glowing, alight with that something as she looked into the earthy brown of his and he looked at hers, lazy, happy smile on rose petal lips as her hands came to rest on the growing swell where she caressed that warm, precious thing; fingers tapping at tight skin in her own version of Morse code; fashioning a countdown with the drum pads of her fingers, offering it a good morning in that funny way she did.

The language of her hands told the little bird it was nearly time for it to fly.

“I have to get some interviews today,” she said as she half tumbled out of bed, toes catching on blankets, “for that article I’ve been working on. I shouldn’t be gone too long,” hands already reaching for her favorite sweater and altered jeans, looking for the missing leather sibling to the boot she’d found by the dresser as she pulled scratchy, woolen knit over messy hair.

“Do you need help? I don’t mind going with you. We could get breakfast. I could get some photos to go with the article,” he suggested, watching as she ran fingers through wild strands of hair, reflection of a smiling face looking at him in the glass of the mirror she’d added to their bedroom just before he’d moved in. She bent down to scratch between a pair of blue-black ears; long furry body pressed snugly against the leather of a boot, end of a stunted tail curling around her calf.

“You should rest, Peter,” crossing the room to leave a note on his cheek, lips spelling out the words of admiration as they lingered, “take a couple of hours to relax. You were out late last night.”

“Are you sure?” The corners of his lips tickling the skin of her palm, leaning into the places where her fingers held on to his face, eyelashes fluttering, hovering with indecisiveness as the nails of her other hand pushed through the caramel waves cresting at his scalp.

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine, Spider-Man,” punctuating her words in the way she loved best, period of her lips sealing her decision with warmth and wetness at his forehead.

“OK, but I get you for lunch,” and his lips were smiling but he was burning again.

His nerve endings were buzzing.

When the shape of her disappeared behind a closed door, and her sounds blurred, falling away into the crushing noise of the city outside, he was on fire. He could almost hear the anxious beads of sweat pushing past tightened pores and wetting his hair.

His hands clutched at his chest as every fiber, every cell that made up the tissue of his heart screamed at him. He was breathing, gasping, gulping for air as he paced, trying to dump as his senses overwhelmed him for a second time on this dreary, winter’s morning.

Sputnik paced with him, hackles raised, tail wild and bushy.

He felt the air outside change, pressure doing funny things to his ears; he could taste heaviness and moisture moments before the clouds opened up, and fat, half frozen rain drops began their onslaught of plinking against windows, cars, people, and the sidewalk outside the apartment.

There was a swarm of bees in his skull, an army of spiders crawling the length of his skin.

Buzzing. _Breathe._ Dumping.

Crushing.

Falling.

_Peter._

Suddenly he was thinking back to that day, when his body had been trying to tell him, begging, pleading for him to listen, where there had been danger and he’d pushed it aside; when gravity had won and he’d failed.

His chest hurt because it was _heavy_ and _full_ and _screaming._

She, _they_ , were in danger. His body had been telling him all morning and he would be damned if he were going to ignore it this time.

The countdown started up again.

_Seven, six, five…_

His hands were a fumbling mess, tripping over feet that were moving faster than his earthquake mind could tell them to, fingers ripping at pajama bottoms and grabbing at red and blue lycra. He had his suit on in a second, crossing the room and nearly kicking Sputnik on his way to the window, lock releasing for the first time in over a year, throwing the window open, panes of glass rattling like thunder as he slipped out into the cold, barely managing to pull the mask over his head before the lines of his face met open air.

His arms worked furiously, hiss of his web shooters a near constant in his ears as he swung past wet windows, millions and millions of droplet sized reflections featuring the racing red and blue of Spider-Man, of Peter Parker, all of him taunting the corners of his eyes as he pushed through the air. He let his chest guide him; while she wasn’t the moon, there was a pull, she held him in orbit with gravity of her own; she was _something._

Aim. Shoot. Release. Aim. Shoot. Release.

Falling.

The soles of his feet clattering as momentum, as gravity, pulled him a little too close to the ledge of the rooftop. When he looked down at the intersection, streams of cars, engines revving, horns honking, wiper blades like pendulums, lights blaring; a sea of umbrellas lining the shore of the oil-slicked road. His heart pushed at the door of its cage, force of it enough to knock him off balance, toes teetering dangerously over empty air.

This is where he was supposed to be.

Why?

_Peter._

Why?

He closed his eyes, lashes supported by flushed cheeks beneath a stifling mask, and he opened his ears, listening for her. Asking, receiving; there was the sound of the sky, the sticky sound of water as the tears of the sun plopped into puddles and onto aluminum, as wetness rolled off of repellent fabric and down glossy windows, the crinkling, sloppy sound of tires rolling over damp asphalt and crumpled bits of forgotten trash. He heard the swishing of arms gliding over hips covered by ponchos. He heard the wind as it blew over cars, through spaces between buildings, and hair.

He could breathe again when the known fluttering of that dearly loved hummingbird finally flew into his echoing mind.

He could breathe again when he opened his eyes, seeing her and that bird standing on the corner of the street below, hair slick and damp, pen bobbing as she wrote in that pad of hers, lips that knew his in all ways moving around words played by a voice made of music as she chatted and laughed with an elderly woman drowning in a coat too big for frail shoulders.

He could breathe again when her flowery scent carried itself to greedy lungs on a moistened breeze.

He stopped breathing entirely when his hair pricked so abruptly it was painful.

He didn’t think he would ever breathe again when the screeching of tires filled every crevice of the world, echoing from every space and every time, as the tires of that derailed car locked and he could see the back of her lighting up in the grey as that crushing thing sped towards her, towards it, towards _everything._

_Please?_

And now there was screaming, dozens of panicked voices coating the air and dripping poison into every part of him there was left that hadn’t already begun to clamber back into that well in preparation for what was coming; his fear paralyzing, every muscle frozen solid.

His lungs weren’t moving, his heart had stopped pumping.

She was bright, clumps of hair floating as she spun her head around, eyes wide, droplets on lashes wet with the seconds she had left of the future as she realized she was out of time in the present, sweatered arms pushing at the woman she’d held captive with a melodic voice that had sung for the last time, shoving hard enough to clear her of the danger.

The countdown started up again.

_Four, three, two…_

_‘Peter, please.’_

And it was **_her._**

**_Her_** voice booming in his head from somewhere deep in his chest **;** answering, always, forever, when he needed her to.

Peter Parker and Spider-Man, they were the same, and she needed him.

He threw himself into the air with as much force as he could muster, air screaming a different tune as he swung and pulled and forced himself to _move_ , to beat gravity at its own game, because if he failed this time, he wasn’t sure that he could keep himself from drowning, if he could keep the well water from crushing broken lungs.

He was looking at her and she was looking at him, at each other, as the world faded away and the sounds of squealing tires grew louder and more faint at the same time.

She was smiling at him in that crooked way she did as she ran towards him, gravity pulling; gravity pushing that car towards her.

He could smell her.

He could hear her heart, its heart.

He was so close.

He closed his eyes and opened his chest to her, trusting that gravity would pull them together faster than the future could rip them apart.

He only opened them when their bodies collided and the centers of their chests merged into one swirling entity of panicked breaths and racing hearts as he tucked her into him and rolled, releasing his hold on the sticky web, cradling her head, cradling that hummingbird as the back of him slammed into concrete, the heel of his foot clipping the front end of that crushing thing as it, too, came to a stop, headlights blaring through the front of the café that had been inches from shattering.

Above the noises of hissing tires, a blaring horn, shouting, and sirens, she whispered into that safe, livened space in the nest he’d made of his body, “Peter?”

Her voice was small, but it was there, and still singing, and in that moment he realized that she wasn’t just something, she was everything, and he loved her.

He had to touch her and he didn’t care who saw.

The need to feel her skin, warm, flush, and alive against his was crushing and he decided more quickly than he had anything else.

His fingers flew up to his head, ripping his mask off, pulling at his hair, tugging at the roots; she was sitting up, standing on shaky legs, and throwing wild arms as quickly as she could around his head, “Pe – Spider-Man, no. No, sweetheart, you can’t - ” 

He cut her off with frantic, needy hands on either side of her damp, reddened cheeks, pulling her lips to his, the both of them breathless before the other could steal air from grateful, terrified, hopeful lungs in the sloppy and uncharacteristically rough dance, as he pulled, and pulled, and pulled at her until he couldn’t anymore, pink flesh unable to give all of what he was asking on the rain soaked concrete with that crushing thing so close.

He was standing now, arms wrapping around her shoulders and her back, fingers weaving into long, wet hair as he pulled her as close as she could get, the bridge of his nose pressing into the crook of her neck and shoulder, skin pressing into skin; flowers and spice, honey, sunshine, and rain; if it were possible for her lines to bleed into his, inky mess of his soul to mix with the clear water of hers, he would do it.

But now, he didn’t even think that would be enough.

He hadn’t noticed that they had moved, that she had been pulling them away from the scene and into a new, more quiet place, body and mind so dependent on the feel of hers, his legs had carried him with her into an alley not far from aluminum and white out headlights.

“You’re _alive._ ” The words were leaving his lips before he could stop them; he was on his knees in front of her, the weight of everything finally pushing down on him; the heaviness of relief making him fall.

Her fingers were wrapped up in salty, rain-drop curls, smiling a shaky, half-crooked smile, she whispered, “You’re _here._ ”

Looking at that glimmering thing that was always there in her eyes when she looked at him, the only thing that his rapidly cooling mind could even begin to think was that she was something, and everything, and that he loved her.

He couldn’t keep his next words from bubbling out of him, words that had been in his heart, but that he had been too afraid to say for the fear of how easily it could happen again. Then it had, and he hadn’t failed. She was breathing, she was a light, she was warmth and everything good, patient, and kind, and beneath all of that was the promising beat of that precious hummingbird pumping away beneath precious skin.

There wasn’t any danger here.

“Marry me.”


	6. Part VI (The End of All Things)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was here: Peter Benjamin Parker, the man who was made of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is 25. 
> 
> This is the end of all things.

“Marry me,” and it wasn’t really a question, “tonight, let’s get married.” He was still on his knees, red and blue of his suit glowing against the pale color of your sweater, strong arms clinging to you, fingers tight and scrunching at the knitted fabric where he held onto everything. You pulled away from him, chestnut colored curls spilling all over the place as you ran fingers through sweaty, rain soaked locks; glossy brown of his eyes like kindling for the fire in them as he looked up at you.

The bird that was your heart rattled in the cage of your chest, his words terrifying and exciting and enough to cause that little thing nestled safely below it and the strength of his arms to shift and kick at your insides; precious, fluttery warmth asking you, asking _him_ , the only way that it yet knew how.

The feeling of his words was crushing, but in that way that made you jittery and consumed with good.

But then your brain reined you in, clipping at the feathers of those wings a little to prevent your heart from flying away too soon. To prevent you from falling too hard when the reality of his words sunk in and he realized this was probably just a reaction to what had almost happened again.

When he started thinking too hard and too fast.

Your whole body shivered from the rain, the cold air, his words, and the remaining adrenaline pumping through narrowing veins; excess nerves your body was still trying to figure out what to do with.

His arms squeezed a little tighter, pulled you back into him.

“Peter, sweetheart, you need a minute to calm down,” delicate fingers smoothed over messy brows, working to put them back into place; disturbed from the violent way he’d ripped his mask off to get at you, to bring his skin to yours in the desperate way he’d needed to, the same way yours had called to him in that moment, “I’m not going anywhere, you don’t nee - ” Your lips halted as you took in the dejected expression on his face.

* * *

 

He looked down, shaking his head, ducking low and messing his brows up again as he pushed at knit wool to hide his frustration; irritation at the way he was feeling and the four lane thoughts racing in his rush hour mind; his inability to signal, to cross over solid lines and just say what was necessary.

He sighed and then fell in to you, into it, that warm, fluttery thing.

You had to remind yourself to breathe when his skin, his flesh and his bones finally, for the first time, introduced itself to that little thing he’d helped to create.

Touching, no longer afraid.

His hummingbird.

He breathed you in, taking in the scent of your skin through itchy fabric, rubbing his forehead gently across the bump of your stomach, tiny droplets hanging from fraying fibers like dewy grass glistening with sunrise colored light as the morning crested over the hill of you, moisture further wetting pale skin, “It’s not that, not at all,” words carried on his exhale.

“Tell me,” and your fingers were in his hair again, his head turning so his cheek could rest against the mound, ear pressed tightly to it; he could hear it, had told you between whispered words and midnight touches that Spider-Man, Peter, could hear the heart fluttering beneath warm skin, was always listening for hummingbird wings, “is it because of this?” Your palm settled next to his nose, hot, moist air tickling at the skin of your fingers as he took in dry, pink knuckles.

He withdrew from you quickly, answering eyes looking into yours as he shook his head, scraggly brows pinching together, thoughts flying from his mind too fast for him to put them together, “No, no, that’s not – I mean – maybe. Maybe that’s part of it? I don’t – No.  No.”

He paused to gather his thoughts, shaking his head again before he finally decided on, “It’s difficult. It’s difficult for me to explain,” one hand moving to cover his chest while the other reached for that place beneath yours; fingertips rattling at the door of the cage when his warmth found it; trying to tell you with touch, falling back on old habits, back to the way it was before.

Before he decided.

A tiny part of you was afraid that with what had nearly happened, he would slip back into that well, and tonight his ears and the scars might lust for the jilted memory of _Maria, Susan, Eric, or Liam._ Because after everything, you remembered them all, too; they’d branded you like they’d branded him.

But no, this was still Peter.  His eyes were his own; in them you could see that he wasn’t drowning.

_He was here._

“You don’t have to marry me because of this. We don’t have to be married to have a baby, Peter.” He looked away again, eyes reflecting the busy street beyond the alley you’d pulled him into, chilly, late autumn air setting the tip of an almost straight nose ablaze with redness to match the nipped skin at his cheeks, stray curls tickling at the pale skin of a creased forehead.

He shook a thought from his head, waves bouncing, and then those eyes closed and he took in a deep breath of air, air that was full of heaviness and importance as it rushed in to fill anxious lungs.

Deciding.

No, _decided.  
_

“Marry me,” he whispered, and it still wasn’t a question, it was a decision, one that he had already made for himself, “marry me because this- _this_ is _something_ , and this something _has_ to be love, _is_ love, I’m sure of it, because after all things – after everything, how could it not be? How could it not be?”

And if it were possible for your heart to combust, it would have. Looking at him, admiring him in this moment where the lines of him had caught fire and his very bones were glowing with the last rays of hopeful, steadying sunlight the world had offered him; long, dark eyelashes casting luxurious shadows on cheeks that had been kissed many times by that star and your own full pink lips, and you could finally, _finally_ see him as he was, as he had always been.

Peter Benjamin Parker, the man who was made of light.

_He was here._

The smile that lit his face matched yours when the only words that you could find after the gift of his; words that had been satin ribbons wrapping themselves securely, and forever, around the parts of your heart you saved for only him; words that were simple, were something, were everything.

“OK, Peter.”

* * *

 

It was two months and two second-hand, antique rings wound around newly decorated fingers later, when that tiny little thing; that precious thing with the hummingbird heart full of promises, tucked away safely beneath stretched skin, decided that it was ready.

When it decided it was time to fly.

He surprised you, Peter had, when he’d been the steadying breath; the sounds of him pulling air into excited lungs a set of tender blueprints for the way your own should move in the rattling cage of your chest as the pain lit all of your body on fire and your mind filled with fear. The only thing you could think about as you looked at the way the lines of your joined hands blurred together, at the sweet smile dimpling his cheeks and stretching starlight kisses over flushed skin, was how easily all of this could disappear; how easily he could sink, and how, new, iridescent wings could suffer for it.

Terrified that you wouldn’t be enough, that without sunshine, and honey, and rain clouds, the little bird made of only good, beautiful things whispered into ears and the intimate space of minds and hearts that had for too long been locked away behind cages, would never know the blue of the sky; that precious hummingbird would instead bathe in a bath made of salt, stranger blood, concrete, and names it wouldn’t recognize but know all the same.

But as your panicked brain sought out the warm chocolate of his eyes, the creamed happiness you saw in them crushed the thoughts, dumping them into the void where you sometimes put things that could leave you falling if you decided to let them.

His sunshine eyes absorbed everything, blinds of his lashes blown wide open as they traced every line of your face as your breathed, and cried, and laughed when his lips whispered breathy words of encouragement into starved ears.

_I’m right here_ , he promised.

_Just breathe, sweetheart_ , he reminded.

_Think of who it could be,_ he dreamt.

When the sounds of that precious, fluttery thing burst out and filled the air with its notes, lungs singing, asking for the world to come to it, his tears mixed with the salt on your cheeks, and you swore you could smell the last of the dusty concrete he had left still hanging from his lashes as they fell from him, falling, falling, falling to the ground, and away from all things, from everything that now mattered; away from the sky.

And he was the sun amidst that beautiful blue.

After May and Ned had gone home, leaving kisses and excited words of adoration to float around the already heavily laden, sparkling air, you sat in the quiet of your darkened room, three sets of lungs breathing in each other, three pairs of wings fluttering in the starry sky.

Your eyes were on him, on the gentle way those hands cradled delicate bird bones and as his paintbrush fingertips painted new, softer pictures on precious skin; memorizing, worshiping.

Your heart _became_ the hummingbird when he leaned into you, tear stained lips pressing into a still dampened temple and then found the fine hairs of your ears as they sang a new bird song to you, twilling on soft, delicate air, “The countdown has started again,” he whispered, moonlight lips pulling up at the corners as he turned to look back down at the life he’d been given resting in the nest of his arms, “Only this time, in reverse.”

_One, two, three,_ his drum pad fingers speaking in the language you’d taught him as he held little palms in his; their secret words were heard, and the little bird opened its eyes to the stars.

Any doubt, any fear that you’d ever had, that the absolute ray of light that was Peter Parker would vanish again; light impenetrable beneath the surface of murky water, it disappeared from your thoughts and the spaces of your heart the moment his starlight eyes met with a little pair shaped just like his own. That fear scattered into oblivion when a sweet, honeyed laugh filled every part of the world that mattered as a tiny set of dark eyelashes parted and the same soul met for the first time, for forever.

He would give it those blue skies, always.

And if it were possible, he shone more brightly when there was a name.

Because to Peter Benjamin Parker a name was everything.

And this was a name that he would never fail.

* * *

 

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	7. Snapshot (Nice Things)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even now, years after all things, the days where Peter surprises you with the brightness of his light; now almost always shining in blue skies where little hummingbirds played, are always the most warm. On this day, you find yourself caught up in a particularly sticky situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little snap shot into life After All Things. 
> 
> Peter is closer to 30.

You couldn’t keep the earsplitting grin from spreading across ruddy, summer stained cheeks as you neared the painted wood of your apartment door; blue color of it appropriate for the birds that lived behind it. Sing-song, chirping laughter spilled from the cracks, trickling out into the hall; sweet honeyed laugh of your husband and the candied giggles of your hummingbird trilling together and filling all the spaces of your heart.

With an ear pressed to the door as you worked the key into the handle, you could hear the two whispering to each other; you could _see_ the way two pairs of thin lips formed around words in all the same ways playing across your mind.

The lock clicked, sweaty hand turning brass, keys jangling as you pushed the matte blue into a room full of sunlight and giggles.

 _“Peter Benjamin Parker,”_ your hands were on your hips as you looked into the bright, starlight eyes of your husband, bare feet stuck to the ceiling and straddling the light, knees bent and tucked snugly into a bare chest as he held on tightly to the little girl who was still leaking tiny, breathless laughs from underneath a mass of toffee colored waves as her father tickled at a squirming belly.

To say that you weren’t prepared for what you were seeing would be an understatement; gasp escaping your lips, a single word all your mind was capable of forming in those seconds before you realized that the entire hallway outside of your home was privy to what hid behind that sky blue door.

_“Oh.”_

* * *

 

With wide eyes you were closing the door behind you as quickly as you could, wood knocking against wood harshly and rattling the glass of the frames littering the walls of the entry way. Paper crinkled and canned goods thudded against the floor as you dropped groceries at your feet, metal keys clanging loudly as you threw them at the bowl where his sat.

“Uh oh, kiddo,” he whispered to the little bird with big eyes, little fine eyebrows raised as she tried her hand at mock-seriousness, “we’re in trouble now.”

“Uh oh,” she whispered back, nodding, agreeing with her hero; the man she too knew was made of light; plump cheeks rosier than they normally were.

Sticky strands of webbing hung from the ceiling like streamers, the two caught up in their own celebration of the morning. Translucent weaves connecting the ceiling and the wood flooring to each other, to the corner of the television, to the leaves of the potted plant she’d picked out for mother’s day, greenery pulled tight as the strands tugged, picture frames balanced precariously from where they sat on shelves.

Two pairs of honey brown eyes, one pair a little more like golden syrup than the other, watched innocently as they waited with bated breath for a reaction; cheeky grin working its way across his lips, cheeks dimpling as he tried his best to keep it from blooming fully. Shiny, sand dusted curls rippling as his fingers tickled at that plump belly again, pert belly button peeking out from the shirt that was slowly sliding towards the floor as she hung.

“You know the windows are open, right?”

You did your best not to laugh, only half successful when cheeks dimpled and the corners of painted lips tugged up slightly as he shrugged his shoulders, little bird bobbing up and down as they moved, “We’re on the top floor, who’s going to see us up here? And besides, _some_ little bird wouldn’t stop fluttering around this morning and I told her if she didn’t settle down, I was going to stick her to the ceiling. Isn’t that right?”

“No, not right.”

“ _Oh,_ so _that’s_ how it’s going to be? _No,_ she says.”

He loosened his grip, happy trills of laughter filling the air again as she dangled, golden, steady fingers wrapped around a pale leg, fullness of it slowly giving way to the scrawniness of childhood, curls swaying again and tangling around ears and eye lashes as he swung her in circles.

“OK, maybe,” little voice dizzy; conceding, delicate fingers flush with color as they skimmed over the plush carpet of the living room; his long legs straightening as he deposited her skinny arms and almost-skinny legs safely to the floor, earthy halo of hair splayed around a chiclet smile as she watched him turn himself around, lanky body stretched to its fullest as he hung by the tips of his fingers, toes teasing the fingerlings of carpet around that tiny bird.

“I don’t think sticking our daughter to the ceiling is really much of a punishment,” tangled toffee curls twirling as a little head shook, eyes bright and happy.

“Well no, but it’s fun,” he agreed, another sunny smile crested over his lips just as the sticky fibers that had tugged at leaves and picture frames gave way, more webbing shooting from his wrist, plant rustling as it stuck, smacking into his chest as he pulled it to him, frowning as the frames hit the floor, wood splintering and glass shattering.

“Uh oh,” trilled the smaller bird.

“Crap,” sang the bigger one

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” and again you found yourself trying not to smile at the looks on their faces as two sets of brown eyes scanned the debris with sheepish expressions, “you’re a mess, Parker.”

“You know, some would say that’s actually a sign of genius,” and you couldn’t keep from laughing this time, starlight eyes watching you as you did, sunny smile on his lips.

“Ok, little bird, you stay there while I take care of the sharp stuff, and Einstein here cleans up his experiment,” his honeyed laugh was light, lips mumbling _‘Einstein,’_ words at full volume as he cut you off before you could turn to get the broom.

“No, no, I think we should leave it this way. I _am_ part spider, I should have a web. Plus,” bare feet padding carefully across the floor, stopping in front of you and pressing a quick nip of a kiss to the tip of your nose, stupid smile on his face as his fingers fumbled for the keys you’d thrown, “look, no more lost keys. You can just leave them hanging around the living room,” goofy smile lighting him up as he reached out and stuck them to one of the strands.

“Like wind chimes!” Excited voice singing out from where she sat cross-legged on the carpet.

“Yeah, see,” long fingers tickling at metal and making them jingle, “like indoor wind chimes. An excellent observation, kiddo.”

“Nice try, sweetheart, but that’s what the bowl is for. I thought you were a genius.”

“Don’t give me attitude or I’ll stick _you_ to the ceiling.”

* * *

 

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